


Promises to Keep

by trashtrove (editoress)



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: F/M, White London, starts pre ADSoM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23920045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editoress/pseuds/trashtrove
Summary: The world of White London is dying. Many believe its dwindling magic is their only hope. Some shun magic as the source of their destruction. Holland Vosijk never had a choice.How long can you stand on opposite sides, knowing you desperately want the same thing?
Relationships: Holland Vosijk/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. First Autumn: I

The Sijlt River streaked through the landscape like a single bolt of lightning. Even from a distance, it sparked with reflected light and hints of true, crystal blue. The drab buildings crowded around it couldn’t disguise its appeal. After months and miles of ashen gray rock under a parched white sky, it was dazzling.

Lisbet distrusted it.

She stood on the crest of a hill, waiting for the rest of the caravan to catch up. A dry wind swooped fitfully around her, tugging her sash and then vanishing again. Below her, the capital hugged the Sijlt and bunched up on the slopes on either side. It looked picturesque from here, almost peaceful. Lisbet hadn’t been to this part of Makt for almost a year, but she remembered vividly that it was anything but peaceful.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Lisbet could tell without turning that it was Anja; only her friend was tall enough to step that slowly. Sure enough, Anja joined her, chin tilted up and hands on her hips. “Olin says we’re camping in the usual place—two miles, and no closer.” She nodded sourly at the river below. “I don’t even want to think about the protections we’ll have to set up already.”

“From the magic, or from the people?” Lisbet quipped. It was an old joke.

“Both,” Anja grunted. She was the very image of an Elda warrior: tall, muscular, and grim, with a healthy disdain for outsiders. Her dull rust-colored hair, which in ages past would have surely been a bright, flaming red, hung halfway down her back in a tight braid. She wore her leather armor like a second skin. But two things above all signaled her to be unmistakably Elda: the green sash knotted around her waist, and the intricately carved wooden plates she wore tied to her armor. The largest was no bigger than the palm of one’s hand, and all of them had complex symbols scored into their light surfaces. These talismans were their true armor.

Protection didn’t mean they weren’t wary. Anja sighed. “I hate coming here.”

“I know.” Lisbet was a true Elda, too. But she was missing some of their more encouraged traits. Though the idea of approaching a current of pure magic, fading or not, made her skin prickle, she considered the city with more sympathy. “They’re hungry,” she decided at last. “That’s all.”

“Then they should try food,” Anja retorted.

Lisbet, thoroughly unfazed, looked over her shoulder at the approaching caravan. “Good thing we’re here, then! We have just what they need.”

“Just focus on trading.” When Lisbet only smiled, Anja warned her, “They don’t want our help. Remember that!”

Lisbet ignored that. They both knew well-meaning advice wouldn’t stop her.

The caravan crested the hill and settled down in its yearly spot, defensible and barren. It was close enough to go to the city markets each morning, but far enough from the Sijlt River that complaints and wards were kept to a minimum. Setting up camp was an hours-long affair, and it took all of them to do it—the chief, the runemaker, the half-dozen warriors, and as many farmers. They even sent the few children present chasing over the nearby hills to find which streams hadn’t dried up since last year. Lisbet spent most of the afternoon hammering poles into the ground for tents, fences, and the warding runes around the perimeter. They set up pens for the livestock on the few patches of greenish grass they found.

The chief tied a knot, grumbling, while Lisbet held the rope. Olin had a hard, gnarled look about her, but those bony hands were still deft with ropes and weapons both. “This place dies a little more every year,” she said.

Lisbet shrugged. “So does everywhere else.” She didn’t like to wander far from the mountains, but every country she had seen was parched with the same thirst, colorless and lifeless. “But they could stand to take better care of it.”

“Bloodsuckers,” Olin spat. She sighed. “But I suppose you’re going anyway.”

Lisbet jerked her head toward the trio of restless kids nearby. Stellan was trying to interest them in runic craft, as he had been trying to do for the entire journey. He was due an apprentice runemaker, and the clan would need one soon. Unfortunately, none of the youths in question had displayed enthusiasm for anything but combat. “You know the kids will want to see the city,” Lisbet said reasonably. “Might as well take them scouting.”

Olin clicked her tongue and eyed the children critically. “All right,” she decided. “Show them around. Teach them where not to go and the fastest routes back to camp.”

“You’ve got it, Chief.”

“Don’t buy them sweets.”

Lisbet didn’t have nearly the funds for that, and wouldn’t until the trading started up tomorrow. All the same, she asked innocuously, “What if they’re especially good at kicking Maktahn ass?”

Olin snorted and waved her away. “Be back before dark.”

Lisbet left the confines of the camp with a small parade of young teenagers. Because her role this evening was guide and guardian, she wore full armor with a tonfa at each hip. Whether anyone recognized the weapons was irrelevant. They would recognize her armor, her green sash, and her talismans; and in her experience, even the most desperate among them would steer clear. After all, she was a predator’s worst nightmare; she was dangerous, and she had nothing to offer. She glanced back at the camp, neatly outlined with posts. The warding runes carved deeply into the wood were larger, more powerful versions of the ones all four of them carried—Lisbet on her armor, the teens on leather cords that dangled from their wrists and necks. All that warding was for one thing: keeping magic _out_.

Fire, earth, water, air, bone—the five channels of magic were everywhere. Magic simultaneously controlled them and ate through them like a parasite. The evidence was in the listless sky, the brittle brown grass that crunched under their footsteps, and the flat, bitter wind that threw their talismans against each other with hollow clacks. What magic was left in this world would consume anything it could touch. So the Elda took those things furthest from its reach and forced it back with protections passed down through generations.

Lisbet’s hands rested on the wooden tonfas at her sides. The teens followed closer and closer behind her as they approached the Sijlt River, one of the last great sources of magic. The sapphire blue light shimmering beneath the surface was a beacon for the desperate. Houses piled on houses at the riverfront, looming until they blocked Lisbet’s view of the river and the gaunt figures along its banks.

Anja was right. They should try food.

The group reached a cobbled road leading into the city. Lisbet stood straight and tall, encouraging her charges to do the same. “Rules,” she prompted.

“Don’t wander,” Rian said immediately. He was the only one who had been here before.

“Excellent, soldier. What else?”

Rian walked on in silence. Lisbet faintly heard Vasha and Pell murmuring to each other. “Don’t talk to anybody?” Pell ventured.

“Good guess, but not a rule.” Lisbet held up a finger. “Try this: pay attention to where we’re going. There’ll be a test later.”

All three looked more alert at once, determined to prove themselves the smartest of the bunch.

“And by all that’s good and green,” she concluded, “look Elda! We’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

And so it was that four figures, all with a warrior’s bearing, strode into the city proper. People gave them a wide berth, glaring dourly at their talismans and covering their own tattoos protectively. Almost everyone had a visible mark etched into their skin. They were binding symbols, an attempt to drag magic into doing their will. Scraps of spells peeked out from collars and sleeves. The tattoos were mostly useless, but some of them worked—just enough to be dangerous. Just enough to make everyone here want more.

“Well, kids,” Lisbet said dryly, “welcome to London.”


	2. First Autumn: II

The next morning, trading began in earnest.

Lisbet was more than happy to help with the grunt work—not that there was another kind of work on a trading trip. The livestock needed tending, the resulting milk and eggs needed packaging, and all of it needed carrying the long walk down to London. Most stayed behind to guard the camp, including Anja with her longbow and two of the kids. Lisbet offered her friend a cheery wave as she left, which only made Anja narrow her eyes suspiciously.

Lisbet carried her tonfas again today. They weren’t nearly so deadly as arrows or blades, but she liked them all the better for it. Fighting with tonfas was not too far off from fighting hand to hand, if your fists and forearms suddenly became considerably tougher. They were her ideal weapon for breaking up close-quarters street fights, which she might feel the need to do today.

Anja had good reason to be suspicious. As usual, Lisbet had plans that did not strictly adhere to the Elda’s minimum contact principles.

“Learn anything yesterday?” Olin asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“They have a new king since last time,” Lisbet offered.

“ _Again?_ ”

“If you keep a king around for more than a few weeks, he gets musty,” she explained.

Olin snorted so loudly that a pair of scrawny pigeons startled into flight. The faint gray light of dawn was easing into the square. Some other vendors were setting up, too, mostly fishmongers and inkers. They all cast cagey glances at the party of Elda. Rian puffed up his chest and glowered at them until they returned to minding their own business.

“Nice one, kid,” Lisbet called. “Just don’t look at customers that way.”

The morning was a flurry of activity, made livelier by the fact Olin was not to be haggled with. When pressed, she pretended not to speak Maktahn. The Elda brought the bounty of their particular lifestyle—fresh food, warm clothes, and simple tools, all of which even Londoners could appreciate. She and Erik ran the stall while Lisbet and Rian guarded its contents from quick fingers and bad ideas. London always had a multitude of both. Twice they had to chase off would-be thieves.

They were sold out before noon. The majority of the money would go back to camp; the clan had sent them off with a shopping list of specialties and repairs they couldn’t get at home. But some of it Erik counted out to them as pocket money, as though they were children, and in fact Lisbet did feel like an excited child. She turned to Olin.

Olin was already shaking her head, stark white wisps of hair falling loose from her braids. “Go on. Just keep your head attached.” She frowned at Lisbet’s enthusiasm. “And be back in time to be of some use.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Lisbet saluted and loped off into the great mess of a city.

The crowd parted less for a single Elda than it did for a pack of them. Lisbet searched the Maktahns for familiar faces, but their wary, sidelong looks contained only hollow disappointment. No one spoke to her. No one tried anything. Despite how much they hated her, Lisbet was relatively safe here.

Londoners only drank the blood of those with magic.

It was ironic, in a terrifying way, that these people—like so many people outside the Elda—were so vicious and dangerous, but only to themselves. Pointed in any direction, Makt would have been a force to reckon with; instead, its people killed each other with reckless abandon, all for a taste of the magic that would supposedly keep them safe.

Lisbet believed in the Eldan cause; she wanted nothing more than to save their world from magic. What set her apart, at least in her clan, was her determination to ensure their world included as many people as possible.

The evening before had provided very little time to actually scout. Herding teens, even competent warriors, had that effect. Now, for a few hours at least, she was free to seek out those who were ready to give up on magic and try something new. She would snoop around her usual haunts, places where magic had blatantly failed to help and people were in need, or even in danger—

Someone cried out nearby, a wordless howl of fear. Lisbet gripped her tonfas and walked faster.

There—on a narrow side street, not even out of sight of the public, three people had cornered an older woman. She held out her hands at them, and small, reddish flames sputtered fitfully before her palms. It was only enough magic to entice them. “Afternoon,” called Lisbet. All four looked over at her.

Lisbet was still walking, but with such square-shouldered speed that she might as well have been a charging bull. Her braid swung wildly. Normally, facing off with magic-hungry gangs was a group activity, a real bonding experience among the Elda who made the trips to foreign cities. Lisbet felt confident about her chances. “You know, there’s a bakery just up the street if it’s lunch you want,” she said brightly.

The nearest attacker lunged at her with a long, wicked knife.

Lisbet brought up her arm without slowing, and the blade chipped weakly at her tonfa. She twirled the other tonfa from its holster and jabbed him once, hard, in the ribs just under his arm. He stumbled out of her way, hissing in pain. She didn’t wait for the next assailant in line, but stepped inside their range, put them off guard with a pop to the jaw, and shoved them backward into their final compatriot.

A faint whistle was her only warning. Lisbet practically tripped forward, but it saved her from the bite of a knife. She got her bearings and turned back around to see not just one man awkwardly holding a knife in his off hand, but also two more burly forms. These muggers hadn’t been the only gang members nearby. And the two behind her weren’t quite out of commission yet. Lisbet could do math just fine.

“How do you feel about running?” she asked the woman.

The woman raised her tattooed arms, one of which was bleeding. “I can take one of them,” she gasped. “I still have another spell.”

Lisbet snorted and put her back to the wall. “Yeah, let me know how that works out.” She could still break through one end or the other and run for it. To her left were the knife-wielding fellow and his two brawny friends, neither of whom had taken a hit. To her right were two relatively fresh attackers, just getting themselves off the ground. Right would be her better option—except for the new figure approaching from the end of the street.

Lisbet tensed. The muggers paused, too. There was something different about this figure. It moved with a practiced patience that sent alarm bells ringing in her head.

The cobbled street rumbled and groaned. And then it cracked open, unleashing a wall of sheer rock that separated Lisbet and the woman from three of their attackers. The woman bellowed; Lisbet barely heard her. She was staring at the stone and crumbling earth, gripping her weapons until her knuckles hurt.

All around the world, people fought tooth and nail to control scraps of magic—a burst of flame, a single snap of bone. Who had done _that_?

Someone crashed into her. Lisbet spun free and swung in an arc with the full reach of a tonfa. It connected with a thud to the temple of one of the muggers. Dazed, she realized the other was already down, with the woman atop him. The mystery figure continued to approach at a leisurely pace.

“Hey, whoa!” Lisbet marched over to the woman and started prying her hands off the mugger’s throat. Their face was turning an unfortunate shade of purple.

“I could have gotten him with fire,” the woman said, disgusted. She wrenched out of Lisbet’s grasp. “Get off! You’ll ruin my spells!”

Lisbet backed away only once she was satisfied the woman wouldn’t strangle anyone to death. She ground her teeth around the urge to explain that the woman’s spells were useless. Lisbet’s warding had nothing to do with how lacking those fire spells had been.

Otherwise, it would have at least slowed down that sudden display of earth magic.

She moved away further still and put a hesitant hand on the smooth wall of earth. It gave a little under her hand. It was thin, precise—just enough to deter someone, expertly done.

The figure stopped before the woman, quiet steps coming to a halt. It was a man, tall and pale with charcoal gray hair. His black, fitted clothes made him look half shadow. He knelt down, resting one elbow on his knee. “Are you all right?” he asked seriously.

The woman clutched her bleeding arm. “Yes,” she said bravely.

The man reached out and laid his fingertips on her forearm. He whispered something too soft to hear. The hair on the back of Lisbet’s neck stood up. Slowly, the woman’s skin stitched itself back together. The wound shrank until it was swallowed up by inked skin.

Lisbet’s heart hammered. No one had that much magic. _No one_ had the power to rend the earth and shape flesh, not unless she had encountered London’s personal devil. She backed away.

The man rose to his feet and turned to examine the scene. He had a grave, angular face, and one of his eyes was a surprisingly green, a green she had always associated with her people. The other eye, from lid to lid, was jet black, dark with the infection of magic. It marked him as a chosen vessel of the very power that had consumed their world. An _Antari_.

Every talisman on her felt like a piece of paper, as flimsy as the woman’s tattooed spells. Lisbet began walking down the alley as if she had never been involved, keeping her footsteps light. Just before she passed out of sight, she glanced over her shoulder—and the man met her eyes. His brow furrowed, sharpening his unearthly gaze. She turned back with a jolt and sped up. She left, ashamed to show anything but gratitude even as fear drove her into faster and faster through the city streets.


	3. First Autumn: III

“ _What_ ,” Anja said, “is going on.”

Anja had a gift for precision in her inflection. She did not ask Lisbet a question; she stated quite clearly that _something_ was going on, that Lisbet was going to tell her about it, and that the only element temporarily missing from the equation was the _what_. Lisbet grimaced and briefly pretended she hadn’t heard her friend over the tavern noise, which was impossible.

Isa clapped her on the back anyway and shouted helpfully, “She asked what’s going on!”

“Another shot, Isa?” Lisbet asked pointedly, pushing her glass toward him. Isa went on his merry way.

This was how the Elda entered foreign cities: in packs, often slightly drunk and defiantly loud. It was the safest way to savor the little treats of city life, namely liquor, sweets, and gambling. Lisbet’s recruitment rounds were done alone.

Since her encounter the day before, of course, they hadn’t been done at all—a fact that had not escaped Anja.

Lisbet thought of the man whose blood ran with all-consuming power. She stared at the place where her drink had left an irregular ring on the table. At the next table, Isa started up a drinking song, as he always did whether the mood willed it or no. Just now, Lisbet’s heart was definitely not in it, but she would take the cover the rolling, rhythmic noise provided. “I got rattled,” she mumbled.

Anja leaned in, hawk-like. “What?”

“I got _rattled_ ,” Lisbet repeated mournfully. Even saying it so delicately felt like cowardice, and she put her head down on the table like a woman who had lost a battle, or a limb. “That’s all!”

Anja pushed her shoulder. “Stop speaking to the floor,” she said.

Lisbet got ahold of herself and straightened up. Three of their number continued their enthusiastic mix of singing and chanting in slurred Eldan. The other patrons didn’t appreciate the entertainment, but keeping your head down was apparently a hard habit to break. They would have preferred their deadly magic-bearer. “It’s the _Antari_ ,” she explained. “He’s real. I met him.”

Anja hissed softly and demanded, “What did he do?”

“To me? Nothing.” Lisbet’s voice lowered. “To everyone else… he did more magic than I’ve ever seen, and he barely lifted a finger.” She described her misadventures as quickly as possible. She tried to swallow her embarrassment, but it kept burning at her cheeks anyway. “How can I call myself an Elda when one magician turns me into a skittish bird?”

“He’s a harbinger of Black London,” Anja countered, unconcerned. “How could you call yourself an Elda if you cozied up to him? I’m just glad you had sense for once.”

“Thank you, Anja; your confidence means everything to me.”

Anja ignored that. “Having a sense of self-preservation is not the same as being a coward.”

That of all things lifted Lisbet’s spirits. Anja was nothing if not honest; she would say it outright if she thought less of her now. “Thank you.” She smacked the table, good cheer returning. “Isa, where’s my drink?”

Isa turned around from his own conversation, ruddy as she’d ever seen him. “Oh,” he said sheepishly, “it’s gone.”

Lisbet gasped dramatically. “I asked you to look after it.”

Isa took on an air so genuinely distraught that she was forced to assure him she hadn’t, and they ordered another. This tavern had a different owner every year they came, and this autumn was no exception. Their order was taken by a balding man whose frown was the widest thing about him. He hadn’t spoken to any of them the entire night. No one had; the locals ignored them except for their simmering resentment at losing the prime back-row tables.

There was always an exception somewhere, if you knew where to look, and Lisbet always did. This time it was a teen bundled up in Eldan furs. Lisbet had forgotten their name, but she remembered a cold, scrawny youth who had nearly bitten her when she got too close. She winked at them. They didn’t respond, but neither did they glare or look away.

“Better?” Anja asked when Lisbet returned to their table.

Lisbet hummed, beaming. “Much. One man can’t scare me away from all of London. Tomorrow, I’m back on the streets!”

Anja groaned. “I wish he had scared you _more_.”

“Some friend!” Lisbet laughed. “Don’t worry, Anja. I’ve been coming to London for years and never met him before now. What are the chances I’ll ever see him again?”

* * *

Perhaps one of the most enjoyable aspects of palace life was the quiet. Holland had known the streets of London all his life; there quiet was rare and always meant danger, in the same way the world went silent before a storm. Here, steps sounded against stone floors. He could hear the conversation of the guards outside, a murmur of human presence. Distantly, the wind flowed through the bare branches of trees in the courtyard.

This was not hushed fear. It was almost— _almost_ —peace.

Holland privately reveled in it after his excursions into the city. The chaos of Vortalis’s transition to the throne had settled, but London ever remained London. The order and security of the palace made it easier to plan for stabilizing Makt itself.

“The Elda, huh?” Vor murmured thoughtfully.

Vortalis, too, ever remained Vortalis—that was to say, optimistic. Against their world’s slow decay, he remained lively, constantly moving with grand ideas people couldn’t help believing. He wore the crown well, but he was also chewing on a toothpick. And Holland, despite his faith, did not precisely trust that gleam in his eyes.

“The usual trading party, I believe,” Holland said neutrally.

Vor scratched under his jaw. “They’ve certainly got a reputation.”

“More than one.”

“So do we. So don’t turn your nose up,” Vor advised. “This could be exactly what we need.”

“What, foreigners or drunks?” Holland deadpanned.

“Warriors.” Vor grinned around the toothpick. “Warriors who have an active interest in restoring the world, even if they’re damn superstitious about it. Real, useful allies.”

Holland shook his head. “They won’t agree.” The Elda made no secret of their dislike of London, nor their dislike of magicians. He had spent most autumns of his life dodging their attention in order to avoid the exact look the Eldan woman had given him earlier—fear, and worse, primal disgust. Besides which, he had no desire to watch an already violent people decide he was a threat. “They hate this place.”

“Which is exactly why I want them,” Vor countered smoothly. “How many others can I trust to have _no_ interest in ruling?” At Holland’s half frown, he added, “You’re an anomaly, my friend. As for persuading them…” He grinned again, eyes alight, charm in full force. “Let me worry about that.”

“I would, if you would worry.”

The king shook his head. “Already got a plan. Unless you have any more holes to poke in it.”

Holland considered that in blessed silence. Through the windows, the sky was smattered with faint hints of stars; under that taste of a true sky, torches and lamps lit the city in rows. At last, he said, “I worry about how _our_ people will feel. They don’t trust Elda.” His mouth tightened. “ _I_ don’t trust Elda.”

“I’m not suggesting we marry them,” Vor said reasonably, “I’m suggesting an alliance. A little cooperation. Like the girl who jumped in to rescue one of ours from a gang.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly.

If that was truly what she was doing, Holland wanted to add. Eldan pride was another part of their infamy; it was not uncommon for them to pry, sometimes violently, into London’s worse business. He hummed, unconvinced.

Vortalis, king of Makt, gave him a smile of pure confidence. “It’ll work. Trust me.”

Holland did.


	4. First Autumn: IV

Lisbet tilted her head back to catch hints of warmth from the afternoon sun. Her arms were full of empty crates, and she had nothing to do but stand idly by while Olin and Erik took the rest of the stall down for the day. The crowd had thinned out since this morning; now there was more passing-by than loitering in the square. Lisbet pretended not to pay attention to one exception: the group of teens congregated at the next corner.

“Not like that, stupid,” Vasha scoffed. She was such a charmer.

“I know how to make a fist,” retorted a Maktahn boy.

“No, you really don’t.”

“Better than you.”

“Punch me, then, see how you like it.”

Lisbet made a show of yawning and opened one watchful eye. Vasha took the boy’s hit to her arm without flinching. He shook his hand out, embarrassed.

“Like this,” Vasha said, and in a rare show of tact, she punched Rian instead of the Maktahn.

Rian’s protests were drowned out by Maktahn laughter. They all started talking at once, comparing notes on where and how to knock the daylights out of people. Rian tried to salvage his dignity by showing off his dagger; unfortunately, every one of them had a knife, and in moments they were all huddled together comparing weapons. Lisbet grinned and closed her eyes again.

“What are they up to?” Olin asked suspiciously.

“Diplomacy stuff,” Lisbet assured her.

Olin grunted. “They spend too much time with you.”

“That’s what Anja says.” Lisbet yawned again, genuinely this time, and straightened up. The stall was packed up, and they had some math to do back at the camp, assuming Olin wasn’t keeping a perfect mental record of their profits so far. “Rian,” Lisbet called, “Vasha. Quit teaching them all our warrior secrets.”

The London kids discreetly scattered at the direct attention. Vasha and Rian looked put-upon, but when their chief set out, they followed.

Moving through the chill, dry air disturbed any warmth Lisbet had carefully built up over the past half hour. She felt particularly grateful that she had furs and a thin but wholesome supper waiting for her, but also keenly aware that the same was not true of everyone around her. Anja’s _they should try food_ was rattling around in her head as she walked, her movements tracked by hungry eyes. Even with the clans combined, the Elda couldn’t produce enough food for a city the size of London.

Lisbet squared her shoulders and met every gaze she could find. All that meant was they needed a lot more Elda.

Outside London, the trudge uphill was a long one. “I don’t care what Isa says tomorrow,” Erik grumbled. “I’m taking a mule, or _he_ can carry all this into town and back.”

Lisbet laughed breathlessly. Rian, unburdened by adult concerns like egg crates, trotted ahead. “Hey, Vasha,” Lisbet wheezed hopefully, but the girl fled like a deer at the first hint of responsibility. Lisbet huffed. “Brats.”

Olin whistled sharply. That whistle had decades of power; Lisbet’s step picked up on lifelong instinct. Vasha turned around at once, jogging back toward them. Olin cackled. “That’s why I’m chief and you’re not,” she noted. She gave Rian a moment and then whistled again.

Rian appeared over the crest of a hill, sprinting for all his gangly limbs were worth. He was going at such speed that he overshot their little group and had to come back uphill. “Someone’s at the camp,” he gasped out. “Maktahn. Waiting for us.”

“Under guard?” Olin demanded without missing a beat.

He nodded.

“Then we can take our time.” She hauled Rian upright and then patted his shoulder. “Good scouting. Now act casual.”

Being Elda, at least outside home, was part bravado. Unfortunately, Lisbet had none to offer with her arms full. She could only step carefully and follow the chief the rest of the way to camp. It wouldn’t do to trip in front of company. It was hard to see around the crates as it was.

As they drew closer, she caught glimpses of Anja standing at the perimeter, bow at the ready. Three more Elda were standing with weapons drawn. People moving in the camp kept glancing at someone she couldn’t see.

“You’ll have to wait,” Olin announced in Maktahn without breaking stride. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Then I’ll wait,” returned a deep, London-accented voice.

Before Lisbet could get her bearings, she was left behind. Sighing, she angled toward a gap in the warding posts and started forward. She caught Anja’s eye and pulled a face. Anja remained grim.

The next eyes she saw came into view an arm’s length away. They were a mismatched pair—green and inky black.

Lisbet flinched away from the _Antari_. Her heart seemed to skip a beat and then resume with a painful thud. The crates teetered in her arms.

His gaze took in the crates as if he had all the time in the world. And then, so quickly she almost didn’t see it, he reached out with one hand and steadied them. If she had ever hoped her wards would defend against an _Antari_ , those thoughts vanished when he met her eyes again. He regarded her without a trace of fear or calculation, only cool disdain. Lisbet was caught by it for a moment.

She tore her gaze away and pushed on.

Olin was conferring with Stellan near where the market supplies had been hastily deposited. The runemaker looked down at her grimly from all his bony height, a twin to the staff he carried—for warding or walking, Lisbet never knew which. “We shall see,” he was saying.

Lisbet leaned toward Erik and muttered, “What’s an _Antari_ doing here?”

“You’re the one who hears all the city gossip,” Erik shot back.

Olin waved them both into silence. Her face was set in a hard frown, nothing like the rough nonchalance she had shown the _Antari_. “Doesn’t matter. We hear him out and send him home with his tail between his legs.” She nodded once and strode back toward the entrance, shadowed by Stellan’s looming figure. It was a comforting sight; if there was any safety to be found behind their wards, then Stellan would find it. Erik brushed a hand over the ward pinned to his shoulder before he followed.

There was a pressure under Lisbet’s fingers, and she realized she was doing the same. In full armor, she had seven carved wards on her person. She scratched nervously at the one on her sternum, feeling out the lines of the rune. Then she jogged to catch up with Olin.

The _Antari_ was waiting with his hands at his sides. He appeared oblivious to the drawn weapons around him or the runemaster. Instead he idly watched the activity of the camp. When Olin appeared, he gave a shallow bow, barely more than a nod. “You’re the chief here, I presume.”

“And you’re London’s _Antari_ ,” Olin replied, crossing her arms. “Well?”

“I’m here to extend an invitation,” he intoned. His face was all sharp angles, but the sound of his voice was like being underwater. It was deep and resonant and seemed to fill up all the air around them without rising in volume. “From the king.”

“You have a new one; isn’t that right?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “King Ros Vortalis has a proposition for you and requests your presence at the palace to hear it.”

Olin and Erik exchanged a glance to the sound of low muttering. Lisbet stared at the _Antari_. There were only two requests that the King of Makt might make of Elda: to leave for good, or to hand over all they had. She narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge from the _Antari_ ’s unreadable face which it might be.

“When?” Olin asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon, at your convenience.”

Olin snorted. “Don’t bother. What you mean is tomorrow afternoon, or else.”

He didn’t reply, though one eyebrow arched slightly.

Olin held her ground. She had never looked to anyone else on a decision in front of outsiders, and she did not start now. “Fine. We come armed.”

“I expected nothing less of your people,” the _Antari_ returned with a gracious manner that almost hid his disdain.

“Go on.” She jerked her chin back toward the city. “Go tell your king.”

The _Antari_ bowed again, so lightly it might have been a mockery; then he turned and walked away without another word. Anja kept her arrow nocked the entire time, standing with a perfect hunter’s stillness as she watched his retreating back. Olin turned away with one hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “Beril, Lisbet, Anja,” she said, “you’re coming tomorrow. Stellan, I want you there, too.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Olin stalked away with purpose, braid swinging. Slowly, everyone turned their attention away from the stranger and went about their business, or huddled together to talk quietly. Lisbet watched him go, though. She was wondering what sort of omen to make of twice looking magic itself in the eye.


End file.
